“Yes,” smiled Lola happily, “from him!”
“So is mine, Miss,” volunteered poor Maria, “but I can’t read it.” Lola turned quickly to her.
“Shall I read it for you?”
“Thank you, Miss, I knew you would, but I’d be ashamed to have him know it. He ain’t like most of the young fellars hanging around. He’s smart! He’s a sailor, on the Vermont, and he’s just fine!”
“This is from Boston,” said Lola, as she glanced at the open letter Maria handed to her. “I am glad to read it for you, of course, but before long I am going to have you so that you will be able to read his letters for yourself.”
“I hope so, Miss Lola, but I’m awful slow. I don’t know what I’d do if it wasn’t for you,” she continued gratefully; “there ain’t anybody else in the world I could bear to see reading his letters. I’d rather just keep them, without ever knowing what he said. It’s a lot just to know that a person wants to write to you.”
“‘Boston, June Third,’ began Lola. ‘Respected Friend: I write you these lines to say that I am well, and I hope you are the same. Boston is a fine City, with lots of people and many buildings. There is water here with ships and things in it, just like New York. I often think of you, and no girl seems like you to me, so no more from,
“‘Yours respectfully,
“‘Wm. Barnes.’”
“Ain’t that a fine letter?” said Maria, with great admiration. “Getting letters like that makes me more ashamed than ever. I’m afraid I’m too ignorant to appreciate all he tells about the countries he visits.”
“It is a very fine letter, I am sure, Maria, and he must be a fine fellow, and very fond of you?”